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    As the smoke burns down to my fingers

    In this evocative poem, Alex Bridges writes of fire and smoke.

    CW: mild references to self-harm and body horror

    Cinders, smoulders, ruin on earth

    Like throats that grab me by the – wait – 

    And haul me slow through rough and tar 

    And scratch me flying up and up,

    (Easy now, cantabile)

    Singing night.

    Whirling day, birth of thought

    That far outstretch this meagre meet

    Of eyes that swim and fill with ash

    To blink a bloodshot world away

    And drink in rough, and burn, and heat

    Until she comes to kiss the dark.

    I’d go gladly, by the end.

    Artwork: Ben Beechener

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